_Mrs. Keyveve_ (_to her brother_, Mr. FREDERICK FRIVELL, _as the
Somalis are performing a marriage dance_). It seems a curious kind of
wedding, doesn't it, FRED? Can you make out which are the bride and
bridegroom?
_Mr. Frivell._ Fancy that's the bride in red cotton, with her hair
down, prancing with maidenly gaiety between the first bridesmaid and
the best man, while the bridegroom, becomingly draped in a bath-towel,
may be observed capering up and down clapping hands with the
officiating clergy. A simple but impressive ceremony.
_Mrs. Keyveve._ Very. I wonder if they get any wedding presents.
_Mr. Frivell._ Rather. The sportsman in the rusty wig gave 'em
BROWNING'S poems and an afternoon tea-kettle, and the Johnny with
the feathers in his wool presented her with a dressing-bag. The
photo-frames, card-cases and carriage-clocks are all laid out in one
of the huts, according to the savage custom of the country, guarded
by a detective in the disguise of a wedding guest, armed with poisoned
spears.
_Mrs. Keyveve._ How silly you are! Look, they're rolling along a
great wicker-basket. What _can_ they have in it--the bride's luggage,
perhaps?... Why, it's an enormous snake! See, it's crawling out!
_Mr. Frivell._ It's the bride's going-away dress, that's all. Someone
ought to tell her that boas aren't worn this season, though.
_'Arriet_ (_in the Sixpenny Promenade, to_ 'ARRY). What are they
miking all that row about--are they supposed to be _torking_, or what?
_'Arry_ (_vaguely_). I expect they're declarin' war--against
_somebody_ or other.
_'Arriet_ (_reflectively_). I wonder if that little bit of 'air
stickin' up grows out of that feller's 'ed like that. Look at all them
little nippers runnin' about--(_with an air of discovery_)--I expect
they _belong_ to some of 'em.
[_The Somalis perform a war-dance, which seems to consist in
squatting down opposite one another in a double row, chanting
"Razza-Ho! Ho-hoâ-ho-ho!" or words to that effect, while two
of the party dodge between the ranks and cluck like poultry,
after which all rise, knock their wooden shields together
until they lose further interest in the affair, and stroll
away satiated._
_Mrs. Keyveve._ Is that really their war-dance? It's very much the
same as the _marriage_ dance, isn't it?
_Mr. Frivell_ (_a contented bachelor_). Yes; subtle beggars, these
Somalis.
_'Arry_ (_during the Sham Fight_). 'Ark at one on 'em 'owlin'
"Oo-oo-oo!" he's took bad _agen_! Good ole Mop 'Ed got one in _that_
time! "Olla-olla-olla!"--he's sayin' the other bloke 'it 'im on the
jor.
_'Arriet._ There's one keeps sayin' "Pudd'n" as plain as possible.
There agen--"Pudd'n!" d'jear 'im? They orter bring that young
SHAZARDER chap to see this; he'd feel at _'ome_ 'ere, among all these
Injians, wouldn' 'e?
_'Arry._ They ain't Injians--they're _Afrikins_, didn't you know
_that_ much?
_'Arriet._ Oh, you're so partickler, _you_ are!
_Mrs. Keyveve_ (_during the Dromedary Race_). _How_ seasick one must
feel on those wobbly camels!
_Mr. Frivell._ The Camel has been beautifully called the "Ship of the
Desert."
_A Husband_ (_confidentially, to his neighbour_). Yer know, the Missus
ain't _enjoyin'_ all this, _she_ aint--you see. I'll arsk her, and
you 'ear what she sez. (_To his_ "Missus.") 'Ow d'yer _like_ it, eh,
Mother?
_His "Missus"_ (_with self-repression_). Oh--middlin'.
_Husband_ (_insistently_). Ah, I know what _that_ means; yer don't
_care_ about it. Now, _do_ yer?
_His "Missus."_ It's well enough--in its way. (_With irrepressible
candour._) I'd sooner see the Mow'ork Minstruels.
_Husband_ (_to his neighbour, with a mixture of chagrin and
complacency_). Didn't I _tell_ yer? That's where it is. I don't know a
more severer criteek anywheres than what my ole woman is!
_Miss Simpson._ Look at those dear ostriches running after one another
and opening their beaks. Now _that_'s not imitation, you know!
_'Arry_ (_with his characteristic eye for analogy--as the entire
caravan parades past in procession_). There they _are_, yer
see--_Comin' 'Ome from Southend!_
[Illustration: "There they _are_, yer see--Comin' 'Ome from
Southend!"]
* * * * *
SMALL BY DEGREES AND BEAUTIFULLY LESS.--Our excellent contemporary
the _Northern Whig_ allows a correspondent to call attention to the
nuisance of cycling in Malone Park. Apparently our "fellow-subjects
of the sister kingdom" have followed the lead of "the beginners of
Battersea," and "made themselves a source of annoyance to the majority
of people resident in the locality." If "the nuisance" is permitted,
the correspondent suggests the Park will soon be deserted. When this
happens, the cyclist can appropriately alter his ride (by cutting off
a letter) around Malone to Alone.
* * * * *